


The Restlessness of Birds

by The_Otter_Knight



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Community: asscreedkinkmeme, F/M, Family Issues, Pieces of Eden, Post-Canon, References to Prositution, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 15:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16411475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Otter_Knight/pseuds/The_Otter_Knight
Summary: Time travel was a lot easier in the movies. Not that Callum has watched many of those.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
>
>> Where Fem!Callum is in the past or present and meets Aguilar.  
> Bonus 1: Aguilar is possessive or protective of Fem!Callum because she reminds him of Maria.  
> Bonus 2: Some sort of appearance made by Arno and his Guillotine Gun.  
> Bonus 3: Some Arno x Fem!Cal x Aguilar.
> 
> This was originally written in response to the kink meme and much of it is no longer representative of my current writing skill. I'm considering rewriting it as I revise the plot line to have it be more consistent. Also the pace would probably quicken up because good grief do I not want to write 100k of them traveling everywhere. That's boring for both whoever decides to read this and myself.
> 
> As that stands, none of this had been revised recently. I will get around to that when I can.
> 
> I think I had a different point to make but I don't recall what it is at the moment.

Even weeks after The Incident, it was hard for Callum to acknowledge that it actually _happened._

Cal, to no knowledge of her own, shouldn’t even properly be able to use the Apple. Yes, as all men could do, she could use it but not for its intent - not as the First Civilisation intended for. She didn’t even know who these “First Civ” people were, only that they held some sort of semblance towards the gods that Sofia had so pleasantly referred to once, back before everything went to shit. To understand that there were some form of primordial deities that had once reigned over humanity with biblical proportions was a bit beyond Cal’s comprehension and more often than not she was wrought with headaches and nerves at the very thought of it. Even so, they weren’t immortal and as all mortal things do, they die and if permitting, they leave behind corpses - or in their case, Pieces of Eden.

Cal, personally, never saw the reason why sets of magic metal would do them any good - had the war between the two Orders been before or after they found them? The very sole reason or a factor? Either way, there wasn’t much she could do with them; she could do as much as any normal man could do with them - if one instilled fear, she could do that. Never could she do as the First Civ intended to do with them, not like Altair or Ezio or even Edward Kenway had been rumoured to do - the flawless and raw _power_ that came with wielding it, the full effects rather than the muted murmur that everyone else got.

She did not have First Civ DNA, it should not have _reacted_ beneath her touch. When she had stood on the rooftop in London, Apple clenched in her grasp - as much as she could handle anyhow, the Apple was ridiculously large - it remained cool and distant in her hands. Nothing like what she had seen moments before she had stepped through that archway and slid her blade into Alan Rikken’s throat; no pulse or threads of infinity or cosmos or _whatever_ the Assassins claimed it was made of.

So it was her who forfeited her rights to work in the Creed on anything _but_ Pieces of Eden projects - it was her they sent out to retrieve them. Because most often than not, the Apples reacted more to First Civ blood than anything else and where was the highest concentration of First Civ blood if not in the Brotherhood itself? She was a safety measure against those who were tempted by it and those who could wield it because she had the fewest strands of it. She could not be swayed by any Pieces of Eden, nor could not use it to sway others, she was nearly the ideal candidate for the retrieval team. 

However, every and all precautions did not warn her of disasters that might occur because of improper Apple handling. Like being sent back in time. Where was _that_ mentioned in her Creed history books that she may or may not have touched let alone read? Oh, right - never. Because _it was a natural side effect to be cautious of when concerning said Pieces of Eden._ Well her Mentor can go eff themselves because to be frank, Cal Did Not Like Handling Magic Apples. Capitals intended and purposefully used for emphasis.

In fact, if she knew that would happen - _time traveling! What was she, a Doctor?_ \- she might have finally stepped back and thrown in the towel and just sped out of there as if her coat had caught fire. If only said consequences didn’t involve being shamed in the Creed henceforth and potentially hunted down because the American Brotherhood are assholes like that.

Irregardless, improper use of Pieces of Eden was the exact situation she found herself in and time travel was the exact result of said improper handling. As a note to herself, if she ever made it back, it would be to never _ever_ accept one of these missions again - that and to bring a roll of toilet paper if it did in fact occur again and her first mental note had proven useless. If both situations were to occur, then bluntly, she’d prefer to never see hair nor hide of the spheres again - whether they had hide or hair mattered little. The thought remained: she hated the Pieces of Eden.

On the up side, she wasn’t alone when The Incident happened, so that must have counted for _something._

Except it didn’t because _of course_ , with _magical glowing spheres of primordial-slash-godly design and time traveling shenanigans,_ she would find herself _without_ fellow Assassins and frankly, without aid of any kind from a familiar face. Of course, this is all just in the typical life of Callum Lynch, recent Assassin initiate and Royal Screw Up. All capitals used for emphasis, of course.

Except sometimes when she thought of words for emphasis and with a full force of emotion in regards to whatever the emphasised words were, she managed to pull faces. Which did not bode well when she sat in a Spanish house in the 15th century and across from the very people who worried very much about who she was and what was her purpose there.

“I don’t like that look on your face,” Juan said. Sharp nosed and with dark hair, he was easy to dismiss from a crowd, if only then to reconsider and glance back just to confirm any doubts of his lack of importance. His voice was low and gravelly, not quite one that commands respect but one that might warrant wariness. He didn’t look happy and although Cal should really consider being much kinder to her hosts, she couldn’t bring herself to. Not when she was still so wary and tired and expecting a glitch in the Animus to phase through and overlap her senses back into the 21st century. But it doesn’t and she was left with the curdle of unease that always remains. Once again she is cemented with the fact that this was a very real situation she had found herself in.

_You don’t like much of anything,_ she wanted to tell him but her lips did not move beyond the beginning of a sneer. Instead Cal cleared her throat and tried not to fold her arms across her chest. “‘M just a bit tired,” she reasoned, “from trying to remember ...” A pause, a exhale before she began her lie again, “who I am. I can’t remember much.”

Ysabel tutted from where she sat to the left of Juan, her eyes kind and lips pulled taut into a frown. She’s less remarkable than her husband, with weary-worn skin kissed by the Spanish sun with plain eyes, a plain nose, and plain mouth. She was more easier to dismiss than Juan, which was not to say much about it. They both would have worked fine as Assassins, to hide in plain sight, but the thought came slow and languid and not completely there - it’s hard to recall that Cal even _is_ an Assassin, let alone that others could be or that the Order even existed. Her father didn’t tell her much and all that she really knew had been crammed into her head the year she had spent in Madrid with Sofia and the other Assassins there.

“I’m sure it’ll all come back eventually,” she said kindly and Cal inclined her head towards the woman. Ysabel was the only person to have ever acted this motherly towards her, save for her own mother but even that was a memory long gone. Juan, like she would have expected from someone of his sort - not quite loudmouthed but leery and a bit too unkind - did not say much and instead leaned back in his chair. He did not ask Cal to think harder, to recall herself, to get away from the small family quickly - he seemed the sort to fiercely reel back his spouse but he doesn’t. There was a docileness where Ysabel was concerned and if Ysabel said that Cal could stay then stay she would remain - complete with no complaining at all from him. He seemed rare in the fact that he doted on her so well.

“I can tend to the dishes,” she offered and already started to rise. It would do little to help her if she let the complication of her “missing memories” settle into a conversation; she always made sure to keep the conversation light if that topic was broached and even then she would attempt to change it quickly. Lying never quite suited her. Ysabel and Juan both started at her suggestion but it wasn’t by much; they are _almost_ used to Cal’s odd mannerisms and almost expect it even though it caught them off guard each time. Cal had once said ‘I’ll take your dishes’ and they had not reacted kindly to that - Juan had muttered cruelly under his breath about foreigners, although with less venom that Cal might have expected. She _did_ look vaguely like a Spaniard, but definitely not as someone born and raised there - perhaps a parent or grandparent, as Ysabel suggested. In all, her American ways threw them off and after she had explained that no, she did not intend to steal their plates and that it had, in fact, been an attempt to return the hospitality.

Still, Ysabel grabbed Juans and her kitchenware and passed them to her. Cal forced herself to smile at them and gave them an inclination of her head before she turned and left what passed for their kitchen - nothing compared to the 21st century, of course, but it was so _easy_ to compare her surroundings with what she knew. They do not have plumbing, or anything close to it, so Cal suffered with a basin of tepid temperature. The food scraped off easily with a cloth and eventually she managed to get through a good portion of them, not that there was many to begin with - Ysabel and Juan had no children of their own, no guests aside from Callum herself.

Ysabel followed after her, just at the edge of her vision. Normally she would stand short at Cal’s elbow and offer twitters of suggestions and prompts and aid her with dishes and other chores but instead she was off to the side. There’s a nervous tick to the way she stood, a low arch to her back and a subtle flex of her fingers around her wrists. Her dress swooped low across her ankles and swished noisily every time that she swayed. “Ysabel?” Cal prompted and finally, the woman nodded, resigned and begun to speak.

“I’m sorry, mi querido.” She was by no means a completely timid woman, but she still peered up at Cal through the tops of her lashes. Short and distant from where Cal stood, the emotional weight felt almost surreal. Cal set down what passed for a cup and turned to her, teeth pressed tight around her inner cheek. Her stare grew colder. The beginning of a conversation never should begin with an apology.

_“What?”_ The words are a little harsh, a little cutting, but Ysobel did not wince and stood her ground, even though it was apparent that the Spaniard wanted to be anywhere but there.

“You think I am foolish? You think I do not know of the gauntlet you wore when I found you, bruised and crushed against that building?” Cal winced at the phantom memory - something she didn’t quite recall because her head and hand had both been actively bleeding and bruised as soon as the Apple time-space-teleported her there but she knew enough. “It is hard not to notice - they are shadows, not truly present but noticeable. You are the same.”

Cal sighed, a weary exhale through her nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.

“Assassins,” Ysabel prompted, voice proud and forlorn; perhaps, in another lifetime, she was one. Cal could almost see the echoes of training around the edges of this soft woman before her, of teachings that had rubbed away with time. Perhaps Ysabel had been an Assassin before, but that time had long since passed and the statement held little fact. As far as Cal knew, Ysabel could very well be a Templar instead. “You walk as they do, silent and stiff - a ghost in man’s clothing. The gauntlet is enough to know the truth if not that.”

“Are you ... _threatening_ me?”

“No. My sister was the same; they always take the eldest but I refused. To take a life not of my own is a thought I could not bear.” Ysabel’s voice was sad and weary, “You remind me much of her - but she has long since passed, years before her training was finalized.” She turned to regard Cal then with a sad and tight expression. “So I know when one has finished their training - you haven’t, have you? You don’t don their robes and don’t look for escape routes as quickly as you should.”

Cal said nothing so Ysabel continued, her voice an exhale against rattled bones and broken dreams and haunted memories. Her sister was dead because of the Creed and for what? For another to stand before her, to tread down the same path? “I have contacted them in Andalucia - that is where you are from, yes? They would know better of who you are and they can help you.”

“I’m not - from that Brotherhood.” _Only in memory, and even those are not mine._

Ysabel stared at her for a second too long and Cal realized too late that she had let too much slip - she shouldn’t have known where she was from. She couldn’t have. But the Spaniard continued with a level tone and Cal hoped that she hadn’t picked up on it, “Then they will contact all of them until they find your home. You won’t be alone.”

Cal fingered a plate cautiously, her fingers caught on some messy grooves and she frowned. What else was she to do? She couldn’t find that very same Apple again - not the one that she - no, Aguilar had found, in both Spain and then in London, but a separate one - not without aid. She swallowed thickly, “You said you wrote them already?”

“I told them an Assassin was on a lone mission, yes. They must always be aware of the truth.” _Nothing is true, everything is permitted. What a lie that is._ “If you would like, we could ride for them in Andalucia.”

Cal closed her eyes, a headache burned behind her eyelids. A remnant of a burn, a flash, of a memory that she can’t quite recall, not completely. “No,” she decided. “I will -” She frowned and forced her tongue around the unusual phrases that Ysabel seemed determined to use. “- ride for them myself. Write them that, will you?”

Although the thought that she had to ride for Andalucia didn’t sit well with her, she forced herself to consider it. She wasn’t aware of how _damaging_ her presence would be in the past, how much she could or would influence. Unless remarkably influential, most Assassin names were shrouded in mystery. She could potentially stay safe here without anyone finding her out, but what if she returned to a future she didn’t know? The feud between Assassins and Templars influenced more than what the public saw, if at all, so anything she did here as an Assassin in the Brotherhood could be horrific. A ripple in a pond, she could feel the after effects when she went back. That was no promises that we could even manage to stay out of a war and accidentally prevent a death that changed history.

Yet … there was no other solution to finding the Apple. Or rather, _an_ Apple. Aguilar had given his away and Cal wasn’t great at history but considering where he was buried, Columbus likely wouldn’t return. A lone Assassin so rarely found a Piece of Eden outside of the Brotherhood just as a Templar outside of their Rite didn’t - not that if they did it wouldn’t be fortunate, but rather the resources and manpower to find one outweighed what one person could do alone. Cal … didn’t like to be alone, not completely. She could find them easier with help than to scavenge for whispers - and sometimes, like the game of telephone, whispers get twisted. The Brotherhood would have a clearer idea than street urchins would.

As she packed, days later, she could think of nothing aside the truth to tell the Brotherhood. Quite a few times she paused to rub at her brow, a headache burned viciously there every time she fumbled for a lie that could find purchase in their minds. There were too many loopholes, too many impracticalities - she couldn’t create an identity in a day, and too many similarities with Aguilar would tip them off. At best, instead of the truth, she could work the amnesiac card. Perhaps along the ride she could think of something more plausible.

Callum had arrived in Spain with only the clothes on her back and her hidden blade gauntlets as her weapon. She didn’t remember much of the first couple of days, which likely prompted the “oh, amnesia? You poor dear,” from Ysabel in the first place. One of her hidden blades had shattered, leather torn and likely needing to be repaired and the mechanism all but broken. Cal wasn’t good at mechanics or - robotics or even carpentry. When she had first seen it, stripped from her arms to lay within arms reach, all hope of repairing it flew from her mind. At best, the other still snapped open - but it was jittery and clunky, slow to launch and often got stuck. 

As Ysabel told it, Cal had seemingly stepped out of thin air and ran straight into the edge of a building - and where it didn’t seem as sturdy as buildings from the 21st century, it still packed a wallop of a punch. The throb behind her head offered the conclusion of a mild concussion and the tension in her fingers, days later, suggested torn muscles. It had taken a near week for the swelling to go down, for her to be table to use that hand, and just to confirm that she hadn’t broken anything. Honestly, Callum wasn’t sure how her hidden blade had broke and the other nearly so, so chances were she had broke it prior to her time-space travel or as a result of it. She might have guessed the latter with how skewed her cell phone seemed to be - surprisingly, she still had it, shoved in her boot when she last checked. The way the screen flashed implied water damage so she powered it off and didn’t think twice about it. It wasn’t as if she could get reception here anyways.

So in the end it perhaps only took her a couple hours at most to get ready, less time than someone who would likely never return would take. The satchel that she was given couldn’t hold much, but she had wrapped one of her hidden blades in her shirt, folded her phone in after and wrestled her jeans and running shoes in for good measure. She wasn’t good at folding beyond what was necessary so it was a thick and bulging mess. It was carried easily enough, though. The straps dug into her shoulder blades a bit too much but that was easily disregarded.

Cal sat at the end of her ‘bed’ and folded her fingers together atop her lap. Juans clothes scratched uncomfortably along her skin but it was better than to draw attention with her old clothes from before. Ysabel was smaller in stature than her and Juan would never dare disobey an order from his wife so they shared clothes often enough. If she had been deemed well enough, she might have tried for a job. Did women have jobs back then? Er, now? Or were they still only valued by their wombs? Aguilar was a man, though, so she figured she could pretend to be one -- not that it was too big of a stretch, she had never been that cemented in her gender and it wouldn’t have been the first time -- as well to get a job of her own if she needed to. But as it were, she might not have to. Sometimes the Brotherhood was hired for kills. Perhaps she could prove her worth and get one of those - then send money back here as thanks for tending to her. For Juans clothes mostly but food didn’t come cheap either. Or medicine. Had she even been given medicine? She had been too concussed to know..

Ysabel’s knuckles rapt against the wooden frame and she started out of her thoughts. As much as she would like to trust her, and she had for the few weeks she had been with her, there was a niggled suspicion at the back of her mind that this had all been a trick, that the older woman had sold her out to the Templar Rite instead. At best, Cal would have to fake it until she made it if that was the case - on the flip side, they might execute her by association alone. Callum was a betting woman though, and any chance was better than none and if her fragmented memories of what transpired to bring her to Spain was true, then perhaps Moussa and the others were there somewhere. They would have known she left for some semblance of familiarity because they knew her through Aguilar, and if they could find the Brotherhood they would consequently find her. If Ysabel had lied to her, she could lie about herself and search through them for the Apple, leave a note for them if they were still around.

Callum idly hoped that Ysabel was as honest as she was perceived to be. “Fernando is about to set out, you best go and ride with him.” Apparently trust wasn’t a two-way street and she would prefer for Cal to ride in Fernando’s wagon than to rent a horse. Not that she could with non-existent money but the fact stood. Yet, Callum also saw the logic behind it - better to ride with someone who had business to attend to in the community of Andalusia than to ride separately.

“How do I even know where the council will be?” She may have lived as Aguilar for a short while, but it isn’t enough to know the location by heart. In fact, she only knew what the Animus or Abstergo seemed necessary.

Ysabel frowned then disappeared long enough to procure a scroll, unwound to let the ink dry. “When you begin to enter Andalusia, you must follow these directions. I have asked Fernando to take care of you while he can but your paths diverge.” She shook out the scroll, dark hooded eyes peered down at it before she rolled it then bound it with twine. Her smile was tight as she extended it.

“I’m trusting you,” Callum admitted and fought with it to place it into her satchel.

“It is the Brotherhood that you must trust now, mujer sin nombre,” she corrected. She hesitated then reached her arms out to pull Callum into a hug. She stiffened. “Trust in yourself, too, hermana. Know that while I may not write for you, my thoughts will be of you. Be cautious. Do not die.” She pulled back and her expression eased. Perhaps, if Callum had stayed, she would see a mother or a sister in this woman - but her fate had never lain here. Ysabel would likely never be more to her than a caregiver, lost to history. Callum did not intend to suffer the same fate.

Ysabel walked her to the carriage, careful and kind despite the circumstances. Juan had not seen her off, most likely at his job. Ysabel gave her a water skin and one last hug, a little tight around her neck before she loosened her hold to step back. “Goodbye, Ysabel. I hope I’ll see you later.”

“May fate be kinder to you, friend,” was Ysabel’s response. She folded over her ring finger and for a moment, Cal believed.

It was a long time after the village had faded out of sight that Callum pulled out the scroll to inspect it. The Spanish proved a struggle to decipher when she was more fluent in the spoken word than the written one, and the contents were confidential enough that she could not ask Fernando or the one other rider in his cart for help, but she managed it. When she was confident that she had it memorized enough in the case that she might lose it as well as when the light of day faded below the horizon, she folded it and tucked it beneath her hidden blade, the one not tucked into the corners of her bag and while it was less than optimal it was better than nothing at all.

The cool weather was enough for her to tuck into herself and consider damning propriety in the situation to almost pull her sweater out and pull it over her head. Instead, she punched her satchel a few times to get it into a more comfortable form, winced at the impact because her phone _hurt_ , she finally rest her head atop it. The ride was a little bumpy but she had suffered through worse. Callum stared up the crisp, clear sky. Stars blotted out most of the darkness and the moon was near nonexistent, a mere sliver of a circle.

It was clearer in Spain than it was in America, especially with a decent five centuries in between. While she was in awe of it all, all she could truly think about different this century was from her own - that they could see the stars more clearly because of the lesser pollution. Thoughts of home meant she thought of her mother, especially where stars were concerned - her mother adored them, had that forsaken necklace passed down from generation to generation to prove it. Loving stars was in her blood. Everything had been simpler prior to her mother’s death, to Cal becoming an Assassin. Her mother had brought that feeling of warmth and comfort that every house should have; she missed it terribly. She promised herself she would get back and visit her mother’s grave. While cruel, Abstergo did not deny her a burial when they took her father.

Perhaps her mother would have dealt with this situation a lot easier than she did. Perhaps she might have done everything in her power to bring Cal back, to take her place instead. But her mother had been an Assassin first and everything else second - perhaps, instead, she might not have gone back to visit Cal at all. She would have chosen her mission over Cal, wouldn’t she have? There were too many uncertainties, too many insecurities for her to know better, to suspect the truth.

Callum found she didn’t want to look at the stars anymore. She turned over and curled her fingers over her hidden blade and cursed the remnants of her past and everything that the Creed had taken from her. She cursed the fact that they seemed to be her only hope now. The night made her vengeful, made her recall memories better left dead. However, she would take back those words just before she fell into a fitful sleep.

She dreamt of home.


	2. Chapter 2

Callum was not a common name by any means, Spanish or otherwise. She recalled, as a child, that she would trace the blimp of her name, circled in pale and eroded pencil lead in the baby names book. Her mother had tucked it near the bottom of a book shelf most days but on others it was a paper weight, enough to hold down papers from the low, humid breeze that fluttered through the open window on a clear, crisp summer day. It wasn’t the name that was starred, or had any sort of numbers beside it, it was just circled crudely. “Dove”. Callum knew that it was a fairly masculine name, that her father had hoped for a son as all men do, that perhaps it was to cement her identity as something other than a daughter, for her to fill in the shoes of her old man. Callum remembered that it had been difficult to spell her name at first; she slanted the words and her u was more often than not almost completely upside down, her C backwards, among other things.

Callum also recalled that she was not the only one who had troubles with her name, because back when she was ignorant of her family’s bloodlines and unaware of their true occupations, other Assassins would stop by with their children. She remembered a dark-haired boy, a little younger than her, almost Arabic in appearance but his lilt was more American than anything, more than hers was. She remembered his stern father and the low muttering of “it can’t be that hard D——-,” whenever he spotted their loops and curls. His name was odder than hers, if only because her father started every time he heard it and most times her father did not start at anything. She didn’t recall much of that young boy, but they had been friends friends by proxy of odd names.

Perhaps the only reason she thought of that young boy was because now, she had no one to share odd names with. She had never been fond of it, and her mother doted on her sweetly, called her ‘Cal’ for short and after she died, every nickname felt like damnation, a roar of an echo of her mother. Nicknames were given with familiarity, with a falsehood of friendship, and Callum hated hers. “Cal — Cal — Cal,” they would call her but how dare they when they knew nothing about her? Her old foster parents tried, most of them anyways, as if that might help ease her into their life. It didn’t. Everybody had a penchant of calling her it, as if she liked it but all she could think about was her mother’s gentle tone of, “Come home soon, Cal,” and it wasn’t home that she returned to, just an lonesome house with blood on the floor and her father by the window, hood pulled up. Cal was the child that she had left behind that day when her father told her, “Your blood is not your own, Cal. Run,” and Callum is the woman she had left behind.

In this world, Callum did not exist. Callum didn’t exist there, either, wiped clean from the world as if she was so easy to forget. What a horrifying notion it was to be aware that her ‘death’ meant nothing, that she meant nothing. The Assassins had a way of making something out of nothing, though, and even her name was no longer her own. Assassin, Assassin, Assassin. Deception is a tool of the trade and names are so easily shed and given as if they were dirty shirts to be changed. Aside from the bag that she has and her possessions inside, her name was all that she had left.

However, Callum was still an uncommon name, even by Spanish standards. She was lucky that Ysabel and Juan had accepted her amnesia as reason enough, that they didn’t press her more for her name - she hadn’t known any Spanish ones aside from Maria. Callum also knew, though, that while she could pretend to be a foreigner from up North, perhaps from the United Kingdom - because even she knew America practically didn’t exist then -, it wouldn’t help her blend in with the community, Creed or civilian. It wouldn’t help her 21st Creed Brothers with finding her but it wouldn’t help any Templars either, if they managed to slip through.

Which they most likely did - her memory was still shattered fragments, whispers of echoes and sometimes not even that. They came on the carriage ride when she slept and even when she didn’t, her sleep was fitful all the same. The ride wasn’t as smooth as a car and it wasn’t as easy to fall asleep on it, either. Callum knew well enough Templars couldn’t stay out of Assassin business or vice versa, and when Apples were involved, well ... Perhaps that was why she was here, in the end. Too much electrical charge, too many heated bodies. She remembered glimpses of faces and while Callum didn’t mean much to the Creed, they did. The Creed would come back for them and - well, she hoped they remembered more than her and remembered her, just enough to find her. Moussa and Lin seemed to be faces she could recall and they were her friends, they wouldn’t leave her, not for all the work she did, would they?

She couldn’t go back with them if she was dead, either. A false name would be easier, and a false life would be easier to step into, to live, to earn their trust enough to find her own way back if they fell through. It’s in Córdoba that she started to think about it, the city further south of the village where she had stayed and recuperated. Her fingers were light, thieves’ fingers, memories not of her own nor Aguilar’s flitted behind her mind’s eye, and it was easy to pilfer pockets for money and slip away by the time that they noticed. Voices in Córdoba called out merchandise and names alike. Catalina is common enough and close enough to her own. She has hated nicknames but if she asked to be called Cal, perhaps it would cement in her mind that this wasn’t her home.

Sometimes it was hard to recall that very fact when the remnants of Aguilar within her mind curled beneath the heat of the Spanish sun like a content cat, when her memories tried to trick her into the belief that this was where she belonged. It was easy to carve CALLUM into the sole of her shoe when she tugged it loose from her bag. The letters are jagged and messy and maybe she did it because memories of that other child flashed across her mind, of misshapen, slanted letters and sad smiles. She knew she had to get home just like she knew that the 21st and the 16th were clearly separate centuries, emboldened by time. It was deep in the ache of her bones, but when her fingers slipped into pockets and when her eyes caught on something familiar - something that she knew that she shouldn’t know - it was hard to remember. Callum tucked her phone out of her bag each night to look at it, to remind herself.

It was easier to remember when Alberto and Fernando called her by her false name and not Aguilar’s. This was the end of the line for the elderly man, his business was in Córdoba and nowhere else, especially not the southwestern port of Seville, where Callum had to make her way to. The prospect of travelling on foot wasn’t foreign to her - she lived on the streets for more than half her life - but the distance between the two cities was enough for her to reconsider. Alberto admitted to duties in Códiz, further south of Seville, so his company to Seville would be a reprieve.

Andalusian horses, while strong and broad-chested in appearance and likely endurable to the elements more than she could ever be, were well priced above what she could get. Horse theft was not something one could commonly get away with, not like murder or other petty thefts - the horse was large and stood taller over her, whenever she caught a sight of them in the stables. They would know immediately if she stole one. However, what she could afford was a better change of clothes - while similar in stature to Juan, he was a man and needed more room in places that she didn’t and not enough in others. The boots were worn down enough for it to curl unhealthily and that was her main prerogative rather than the other garments.

Whatever ancestor was a thief, she thanked profusely, because it was easy to think about it, to think about their skills and to tug on it, for the facade to slip over her and fill her shoes. While the whispers of other ancestors didn’t seem to imply a blacksmith, one of them seemed more inclined to fashion things out of what she got, to fiddle with the coins and flip them over her fingers deftly. Whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t Aguilar, who was determined, or Victor Lynch, her Templar great-grandfather on her father’s side, because he would never stoop so low.

A guard caught sight of her once and Callum had to kick her foot into the dust and kick it up to distract him before she made a run for it. Córdoba’s buildings were fairly easy to scale, probably made easy by Aguilar, who was beyond familiar with it, and her fingers caught in all the right nooks if she thought about it, let the haze settle over her mind, for her to slip and sink into the life of an Assassin. It was what lead her to kill her first guard in Spain though, because she pressed the flat of her right foot against the highest point of the building, her fingertips crooked against the lip of the roof and the pivot quick as she turned mid-air when she pushed off. Her hidden blade sunk into his throat and he barely made more than a gasp as it slipped through the flat expanse of his throat. Aguilar curled and made a low sigh of protest at the back of her mind - he was more the sort to avoid conflict if he could. It hadn’t been him that reacted like that.

She retracted her wrist and the blade slid out with a wet and sloppy sound of blood. The guard lay still beneath her, her knees splayed on either side of him, posture rigid. It wouldn’t be Victor that reacted negatively to a guard - what little memories she had seen of his was enough for her to figure that he could talk his way out of a fight. Callum had dozens of other ancestors, before and after Aguilar and Lynch that she couldn’t account for, whispers in between the loading screen and binary code. She didn’t hear their voices or their comforts at the back of her mind but they were there in the way that she moved herself that the other two didn’t.

Callum stood up from him and carefully hoisted him up from his armpits and began to drag him further into the alley. It was a small mercy that nobody had seen her kill him, and it gave her enough time to set him down beside one of the buildings on either side in a sitting position. Murder was a step above theft and Callum hadn’t been above graverobbing or corpse looting. Her hands smoothed down his front and to little surprise of her own, couldn’t find a money pouch. She sighed and pressed her fingertips to his eyelids and whispered, “Rest in peace,” before she moved away.

It would be easy to slip into the thrum of the people outside the alley, but her feet feel like lead and a nervousness made her skin clammy. He didn’t have to die, she thought. I didn’t have to do that. What if he was of importance to her timeline, to the way the world went? Had she just forsaken her life and countless others? Those were just thoughts of comfort though, enough for her to think that her actions had bigger meanings to avoid the fact that she had just killed a man. She had killed a pimp before, and a few Templar agents during and after she fled Madrid, but the first was out of false justice and the others out of necessity. This one - this one didn’t deserve it.

Her footfalls were heavier as she made her way to the hotel where Alberto stayed. Callum was accustomed to rooftops and in between dumpsters, to beds in dark houses and dark people who followed her there. She was used to plenty of things but not this. The Italian wasn’t anywhere she could see so she settled in the hallway and slid down the wall. She inspected her hand then unbuckled the gauntlet. It slid from her arm easily and she rubbed where the leather pressed much too sharply. The note fluttered at the edges, but was pressed into the curve of the leather and felt flimsy as she pried it from its place. The writing had smudged due to sweat and proved difficult to unfold, the writing no easier to decipher than it was last time. Her sigh pressed against the creases and then she set it to the side.

It was a pity that no one of the ancestors who helped her were blacksmiths or leathersmiths. Callum turned the hidden blade over and over in her hands and eyed the grooves and fancy carvings into the thick leather. While it wasn’t the most comfortable, and was stiff both to age and disuse as well as the make of it, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The edges were frayed and the smell of burnt leather lingered just enough that she could smell it when she pressed it to her nose. The carvings were worn down, the blade duller and surface cracks danced along the edges when she brushed the blood away. There were the typical designs that sang familiar at the back of her mind, intricate in how they were made, spectres of eagles and mandalas pressed along the hilt and middle of the blade.

The strings that pressed the flat edges together along her inner arm had been frayed so badly that it was a surprise to her that it had lasted as long as it did. It had been the first thing that she had replaced, but either it was poorly made or not the right sort because at the end of the day it irritated her enough to draw it off and discard it for the night - and no Assassin should be without their blade so it expressed how deep her discomfort was.

Dark, sooty markings pressed against the edges of the leather from the top, and pale veins moved along the tense material. She had been lucky that the Piece of Eden hadn’t incinerated her arm, Callum figured. She would have repaired it if she could, but knowledge beyond muscle memory was sometimes hard to distinguish. She had always seen Aguilar and not been him in her relapses after all, not like the others in Madrid had experienced. Her synchronization had always came a little slower, a little more tentatively. She hadn’t seen much of Aguilar since she arrived but his echoes still curled around her, almost amused in nature. If he knew how to fix his own hidden blades, he made no sign of telling her.

“Catalina,” the voice came stilted and she had to glance up after she started at the proximity - it had been more surprise than acknowledgement that made her turn to him. The Italian stared down at her from where he was, the open window beside him let the sunlight touch the edges of his body, enough that shadows flitted across his face from where he was. Callum supposed she’d have to get used to the name, now. “What is that?”

Callum was a little slow to respond, her attention fixed on the gauntlet as she slipped it back on. The blade sheathed easily, but it had been crooked when it was out so it went crookedly back in, the tip of it visible and against the metal compartment that held it. She turned her hand over and began to tie it. “A family heirloom,” she settled on. It was a little awkward to fumble with the strings, to tighten the laces together and press the leather against her clammy skin. It didn’t help much when her fingertips caught because of the flaky blood. She hoped he didn’t notice. It was hard enough listening to two voices in her mind - Aguilar’s and her’s - when she looked around her, and confusion and disorientation wasn’t uncommon. She’d need him in Seville, to make sense of things. She couldn’t scare him away.

When she placed her hands her hands down to push herself up, she was careful to grab the partially folded note. “You reign from an odd family,” Alberto sighed then adjusted his shoulder strap. His bag looked heavy but he seemed familiar with the weight if how at ease he appeared seemed to be any indication. “Did you need something?”

Callum thought of the body in the alleyway immediately and supposed that he wouldn’t be much help disposing of it. She did what she could, with what knowledge she knew - which wasn’t much. Not that she wanted to rope him into her business, anyhow. It just would have been nice to divulge the burden with someone else. She just felt so alone a good part of the time. What if she could never make it back home?

Not that she really had a home, though. She hadn’t had one since her mother died - not since she fled from each one after that. It was where she belonged though, no matter how each ancestor before her protested otherwise.

Alberto’s eyes stayed on her and she gave a shrug as a response. “Do you know where I can get a pair of shoes?” She asked then hesitated long enough to correct herself because she wasn’t sure if they called them shoes yet, “Footwear, I mean.”

The redhead curled his fingers beneath the strap of his bag and sidestepped her in the hallway to brush aside the thin cloth curtain that he had for a door. “I do not visit Córdoba often enough to know for certain,” he pronounced each word slowly and let her follow him into his room. He ran his fingertips along the surface of his bedside table and set his bag down beside it. “Or if they are even still there. The couple blocks around the marketplace is most likely where you’ll find it.”

Wow, as if she hadn’t thought of that. Callum ran her hand down her face and let out a sigh through her nose. “Right.” Her tone was enough for Alberto to give her a side glance. “And clothes?”

“Probably nearby that store as well.”

“Would you happen to know how much?” She folded her arms across her chest and he straightened up from where he moved a package beneath the table. He muttered something to himself in Italian and while Italian and Spanish were similar, it wasn’t close enough for her to figure what he said. It sounded suspiciously like he was cursing her stupidity. He turned to her and recited a price, one that she rose her eyebrows at. Aguilar was a comfort then because his indifferent presence there implied that it seemed to be a common price. Not that they wouldn’t try to schmooze her because she was a woman, though. She thanked him and, while she struggled to map the position of the sun in relation to the time, she figured it was decent enough to make her way to the marketplace.

It was busier there and Callum felt inclined to duck her head, to hide her hands and hope they didn’t stare too hard or too long at her. A few people turned to look at her, as they always did, something that she found was common since she was there. Her mainly fair complexion and dark hair was enough to turn heads but not enough to question her. Enough of a Spaniard to blend in with the herd but not enough to not feel like a wolf among the sheep.

It took her a considerable amount of time to find the shop in the first place, enough that they turned her away with a reprimand. The homesickness plunged her gut those nights and she despaired over the fact that she couldn’t just purchase shoes in her own size so readily - they had a few for sale, of course, but with how her feet ached with the improper footwear, she felt inclined to wait a couple weeks to be fitted properly rather than risk it. As predicted, the price went up some by the shoe merchant and she begrudgingly agreed to it - one of her ancestors may have had the charm but when she tried to haggle it down, her tongue caught and her words tripped and she was fortunate enough not to have made a mess of the situation.

Clothes, of course, also took time but she was less worried about that. If Ysabel held true and it was Assassins she was going to meet in Seville, chances were they would fasten her with her own robes. Probably - for all she knew they might not. There were more options for tailors and seamstresses than there were shoe masons and the price for the latter was enough for her to consider a cheaper option. Callum knew from experience that the poor had little to lose and may feel inclined to try to cheat her out, too, but her money pouch would have wailed in sorrow if she considered anything more. A lonely old woman was difficult to plead with and her reluctance was enough for Callum to consider elsewhere, but she proved to be remarkably quick at work. Clothes made from old cloth wasn’t as strong, she figured, but it’d be already broken in and it might help with the illusion that Spain was her home, that she had lived there all along and, well, that was the whole point wasn’t it? To fool the Assassins into thinking she was one of them, to get them comfortable with her as soon as possible so she can get back without messing things up too badly.

The cloth didn’t hang as garishly on her and felt smoother; it bunched less at her waist and it didn’t pull tight at her hips. There was enough room to smuggle some weapons onto her person if she wanted but it was her hidden blade that she wanted concealed more than anything else. Callum had had to stay nearby while the woman worked on them for accurate measurements, and paid her at intervals for when she switched to proceed on other garments for her. Juan’s clothes were still a warm comfort and it was with reluctance that she handed them over but the solid fact that they illy fit her was enough. Three pairs, which included the set that she handed over and wore most often, was what she got. The hassle to persuade her not to sew anything into a dress was moot and Callum was fortunate that it wasn’t all fashioned into too long of dresses. She couldn’t run in those, no matter how she tried.

The boots were less of a hassle but took longer, delayed due to the tailoring. At least the man understood her desire to travel and flexibility of the sole — for parkour, of course, but she hadn’t told him that — and made it more appropriate. Callum had always hated her too wide of feet, and Juan’s narrow footwear was atrocious, it was tight and pinched at her then rubbed her skin raw and them some. All they had to do was measure her feet and then she had to pop in from time to time for adjustments - of course, because of her focus on the clothing, the shoes were put on hold. The footwear was curved to mimic support for the soles of her feet, so they weren’t as great as her 21st running shoes but it was better than what she had before.

Callum wasn’t much for boots but they were comfortable and could be tied higher up the length of her leg, the leather thicker than expected. It’s a little crude compared to what she was used to, but it would work. Neither were cheaply made though, and her pouch held little more than air at the end of it, but she was thankful that she chose necessities over the horse, no matter how fast the latter would take her. Alberto’s patience wasn’t remarkable, though, and he had left partway through the week of her second outfit.

She spent a few days extra in Córdoba, on slipping pockets and collecting coins and genuinely attempting back flips for coins. It wasn’t very effective, though, and reputation was something best not earned especially not for an Assassin whose very defining trait was stealth. Still, when she was comfortable with what she ‘earned’, she met up with Alberto a quarter down the road. He had made himself familiar with a caravan of travellers and removed himself when he caught sight of her. The foreigners introduced themselves and the walk was all the less lonely for it.

While Callum didn’t personally know of Spanish cities or roadways - Aguilar was surprisingly quiet - she knew well enough about the ocean cities to recognize the glint of water in the distance rather than consider it a mirage, the stale scent of salt on the wind. There’s more traffic when they divert onto the main road and they manage to hitch a ride atop a carriage for a few days before they turn north to head to Portugal. Callum felt restless with the crowd of people, their close proximities and loud voices. It was different in New York and all the other countless cities that she had lived in on the streets - out on the open road there were no buildings to hide in the shadows of, nor was their predictability in how everyone acted, no familiar thrum of people. It put her on edge and her irritability bled through more often than not as the days stretched on to weeks.

Callum bade a quiet and bitter farewell to Alberto when they were a days walk from the city, when the salt stream was loud enough to drown out some voices. In the end, she hadn’t trusted him as well as she thought she would have, but his company from Torréz to Córdoba then Seville was enough. There had been simply too many clashes between them at the end of the day, too many conflicts and sharp-bitten retorts that left their relationship weak and wanting. Perhaps she owed him an apology, especially when he wrote on the back of her barely legible note on directions to where she wanted to go, but the words were hard to say and her mother has always told her that if she had nothing good to say then she didn’t have to say anything at all and that extended to apologies that she didn’t mean.

She watched her traveling companion slip off into the afternoon, fragmented sunlight across his flaming hair, that she wondered if he might have been considered a friend at all or ally by convenience. Or if it had been all a lie. She wouldn’t have put it past him to be revealed to be a Templar, anyways. She had a knack for befriending them and accidentally allying herself with their cause, as proven by Sofia and then an incident in San Diego after that.

Seville felt larger than Córdoba, perhaps because it was pressed against the water’s edge and the city spilled out along the sides. It felt warmer there, probably because of the reflected light from the water’s surface, and the ships that sat tied at the docks were enough to feel smaller than them. The buildings were taller, a couple floors per house, usually, save for some districts. Aguilar unfurled at the back of her mind, a familiar ache burned where he resided. She supposed Seville had its charms, and with it being one of the major ports if not the main, it was heavily populated and thrummed with life.

At the end of the first day, she sat at the edge of a roof, feet dangled over the edge and bag pressed tight to her lap. Her phone made a low crackle sound when she turned it on, distorted and long, eerie in its voice like properties to the static, and her screen continued to glitch, blocks of data fuzzed in and out. She shut it off and tucked it away. Callum had always known a life on the run, so now that she had more than what was on her back, she struggled to comprehend it, to change her life to accommodate for the changes. Her folding was messy and the bag had barely fit her clothes and sneakers before, so the bulge was more evident. She had traced the carved C in her name at the bottom of her sneakers before she put it away and in the middle of the night, she would trace the imaginary lines of her name, dark and vivid in her mind.

She hoped she wouldn’t forget.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a part of chapter 2 but I felt that was it was too long as it was.

The civilians were less dressed in Seville, fewer layers of dark cloth and more lighter, looser clothing. It wasn’t what she was used to, what she might have expected from her — wait .. Aguilar’s — memories, but it was also easier to get away with things here. She was mistaken as a Spaniard by some Frenchmen a few times by the docks, and believed to be European by the natives. The revelation was not soothing - a foot in each world, and not even that, because her own thoughts and feelings, morales and worries were brought on by a completely different century, not this one. Her mind was elsewhere but her body was here, and perhaps any other person who had succumbed to the Bleeding Effect might have rejoiced in it, for her it was a nightmare. It had taken all of her willpower to not refer to a dark-haired woman as Maria or to introduce herself as Aguilar when her name was prompted. She couldn’t even look down at herself to cement her identity, to confirm her own sense of self, because all she saw was a 16th century almost Assassin.

More often than not, she retrieved her bag and grabbed her marked sneaker, traced her name and looked at her phone. Nobody ever spoke of the disorientation that came with being in another time period, when logically she knew she shouldn’t be there, but the other parts of her rejoiced in. Then again, nobody spoke just of time travel, either.

Callum found herself by the docks more often than not, her reflection marbled by the waves when they lapped against the shoreline and the posts. It was lukewarm, just enough for her to feel it beyond the moistness. It was a soothing reprieve when she would grow tired of her constant movements, her slight inclination to be fit. While she was used to the life on the run, of constant movements and shifty eyes — of hands that press on her in the dark but that wasn’t something she liked to think about — she could be terribly lax when she wanted to be. It might not sit will with her initially, but her desire for normalcy outweighed her desire for a life as an Assassin. Not that that was what she had ever wanted, but now it was the only option left.

Actually, wasn’t that what that one boy wanted? She idly wondered what happened to him. What a pity it was that she never recalled his name, just that it was odd, that someone had mentioned something similar in something called a Codex ... What was he doing, even now? Was he an Assassin? Did he get free? She hoped so; he seemed soft, not in a bad way, just someone who would never be suited to the Brotherhood. ...Was she even suited for a life of an Assassin?

“They would suggest that you cover your tracks better,” came a high voice from her left. Her head turned and she brought her hand to her face and used it to shield her eyes from the sun. The man - ah, boy, he looked younger than her, probably his teens or early twenties but likely not even that, shifted down to sit beside her, feet dangled over the wooden edge and lax grin on his face. He’s boyish, like a colt, a toothy grin prominent of his face. Sun-freckled with dark hair and a dark look, his smile was innocent and then some. His cheeks were full, almost feminine, and his eyes wide and aware. “I, however, am thankful you did not. Makes it easier on me. You are the woman with no name, yes?"

Callum dropped her hand to swipe her knuckle beneath her nose. “It’s Catalina, I think, it makes .. the most sense. It’s familiar,” she admitted, eyes on him. The boy swung his feet back and forth, immature in his demeanour but his expression was well meant.

“Amadi,” the Novice offered up and threw out an arm, and the cuff of the hidden blade peeked out from beneath the cloth. There was no missing finger and from the shifting of the fabric along his arms, he only wore the one. Was this a mission intended for him specifically? To test his worth to the Brotherhood? Callum accepted his hand and Amadi’s grin widened. “I was sent for you with my mentor; she’s around here somewhere.” His eyes did not betray her position though and Callum was both bold and reckless enough to scour the nearest stations. “She’s not here,” Amadi quipped helpfully.

He stood up, a little overbalanced on the wood but he steadied remarkably fast. Assassin training would do that, she reasoned. He threw out a hand, ready to help her up, and she conceded and pressed her fingertips into his palm. She stands taller than him — in fact, she’s noted to be uncomfortably so, a tower among women — but it’s even more pronounced when Amadi leaned his head back to look up at her. Was he younger than she originally thought or just short in stature?

“I will show you to her,” Amadi announced.

“Just like that, no questions? I could have been a Templar.”

“Doubtful. They’re trained differently than you, hold themselves differently and you are not bulked up heavily like them. Asides that, Ana will know of you if what you say is true. She knows of every blade on this side of the ocean, she will know you, or she will not. That will be answer enough. If it doesn’t satisfy, I hold little doubt that she will take care of you.” Amadi cocked his head then raised a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Come, now, Catalina. I will show you to her.”

“Cal,” she whispered and Amadi’s look was enough of a reply. Confusion, wariness, curiosity - she has seen it all before. She let a smile settle across her features, her hands along the expanse of her hips, where pockets could be. “You can call me Cal, if you would like.” She has hated the nickname before but now it would serve as an anchor. The mixed expressions that flitted across his face was so open and aware - not quite scared but something made her aware of possible hardships he would face, especially as an Assassin. That boy from her memories was the same, long-faced and solemn-eyed and it would only be a matter of time before Amadi succumbed to it as well. Perhaps she had also seen herself in him, a child out against the world, curious about the world but knew enough that the world could just as easily slide a knife between his ribs. Callum had only wished that all the young Assassin children who grew up with that lifestyle did not have to witness death so soon.

Amadi’s expression didn’t lessen. “Alright,” he said and raised his hand and curled his ring and little finger down and beckoned Callum with his index and middle. Callum was no dog to be called, as was her original assumption, but hesitation would get her nowhere. There was no explicit reason for her to trust this Amadi, either, and all she had was his word. However — Aguilar’s presence unfurled at the back of her mind, not unlike a headache at the base of her skull, and a mental sharp tug was enough to draw his attention. It was strange, this awareness of other people inside her - they were tucked away in the storage of her mind where it was dark and noiseless, most of their presences a slow comfort. To drag one out of hiding felt like she was suddenly aware of a paper cut that she had forgotten she had until she cleaned it with peroxide or a feather light touch of a headache that just never went away — it stung, and was a little disorientating, but sometimes it was useful. It had taken her months to figure out each presence in her mind, to put names to feelings and tones. It was mostly Aguilar and at other times, little pulses of other people who had fallen in between the cracks of her sessions. Victor Lynch, mostly, although the other presence that was not those two was a forlorn one, someone not English nor Spanish because his tone was different. Sadder.

Regardless, it was Aguilar she pulled on then. Like a displeased but taunting cat, his presence was slow and hazelike through her mind. He was more experienced than her, years under the belt when she only had two at most. She could feel him press against the back of her eyelids, mutely, as if he wasn’t wholly there - perhaps he was tired, somehow. They watched Amadi, moved after him as best they could. Callum has never had an identity crisis, nor could she — if it ever happened it would wholly be Aguilar and not her fragmented mind. Ultimately, it was him who finally began to creep back, a low and humid contentment brushed against her nerves and it was answer enough. Amadi was likely an Assassin, his movements sure and true. Callum was inclined to agree with him.

“Will I have time to grab my bag?” Callum asked him when Aguilar returned to his lax state at the back of her mind, almost out of reach.

Amadi spared a glance back, lips pursed. “I would believe so.” His tone implied otherwise but Callum didn’t feel the need to pursue the topic.

As it turned out, Ana was a sharp-nosed Spaniard. The creases around her chocolate toned eyes and the texture of her hair, loose and almost matted, seemed to imply she was older than Callum’s thirty some years. There was a weathered look to her skin, thin-lipped and no-nonsense, her arms were crossed on her chest. Her posture wasn’t lax, though, despite how she made herself seem when she chose to lean against the building - there was a stiff rigid ness to her shoulders and the way she held herself promised more than the visible weapons on her person. Aguilar had been the one to point it out, her attention drawn to various spots on Ana’s frame when otherwise she might not looked. However, the ease from her ancestor was surprising, a carelessness about the things that Ana could do to Callum so readily if she so choose. Callum knew that the laxness that her ancestor felt would do her no justice here - Ana could very easily spear her on the grounds of being a stranger. She could not use Aguilar’s familiarity with her to her advantage.

“You are the mujere sin hombre, huh?” Her voice was sharp, a bite against the back of her teeth. Even the way she spoke was stern - Callum supposed she was likely to be the sort of teacher who would smack her knuckles with a ruler until they skinned if she stepped out of line. A teacher with a tendency for harsh disciplinary action. No familial love would heal her heart of ice, Callum wryly assured herself.

“Catalina,” she offered tersely. Ana’s head tilted and her eyes betrayed nothing. Finally, she turned to Amadi, who had taken to loiter next to her, shoulders drawn tightly together - not because of wariness, evidently, but perhaps for something else. His dark eyes flicked to the rooftops, narrow and concerned, but Callum felt no presence nearby that would raise her hackles. Most civilians had little malicious intent but they all gave the three a decent berth of space, not that it was needed. Huh. So much for blending in, she figured with a hint of bitterness.

“You have it, novice?” Callum turned at Ana’s voice, softer when her steely gaze settled on him. Amadi’s shoulders locked further and a look of befuddled surprise settled in at the soft corners of his face. There was a sympathetic flash then, almost pitying when Ana sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Disappointment was the worst to be on the receiving end of, and Amadi seemed to agree because he drew further in on himself, his stature compressed more than normal. “Go get it, then.”

Amadi’s soft voice turned apologetic and he dipped his head, his bow a little deep and he hadn’t straightened properly when he turned to run off, his gait a little uneven as a result. Callum’s curiosity turned to Ana but the older woman only folded her arms again and adopted a more hostile posture. Her expression wasn’t anywhere a sneer, but it could have felt like one; Callum wasn’t childish enough to assume that it was the other’s mood that brought it on, her natural temperance. Ana came off of cold, yes, but she seemed softer towards Amadi - it was likely suspicion that turned her jaded when it concerned Callum. It did not mean that it did not sting, though.

“Are you even really here for me?” Callum demanded.

Ana’s expression did not change but her iron-clad grip on her forearms lessened, the creases less prominent. “We had to arrive at Seville irregardless if you were here or not. It was easier on the Creed if we did both businesses at once.” Callum felt her own facial expression tighten in acknowledgment - apparently she was not even worth her own escort; but what possibly could they be here for otherwise? Her gaze flitted down the path that the apprentice had taken. His footsteps had been sure and near silent, the making of a true Assassin. The path he had taken would lead him to the docks - what business did he have there? It hadn’t even been their arranged meeting place - had he just figured that she was the one were looking for? The heavy weight of her bracer promised enough. It bulged easily from beneath the folds of her clothes - he had probably seen it. What was not worth her catching sight of there? She could only presume Amadi had gone there for their original intent and saw her first. Was his eagerness that profound or was it faked so she could not bear witness?

“What is with that look, girl?” Ana’s voice was hard, miffed, but there was an edge to her gaze when Callum turned to regard her. Vacantly, she realized that the harshness to Ana felt wrong, false almost.

“Just wondering if I’d even get an answer as to where we’ll be heading,” she offered after a moment. A moment too long if the Assassin’s reaction was any indication, but then the moment settled and Ana sighed, a low and hoarse sound through the slight gaps in her teeth. Her brow smoothed out and it was easily noted the lines that marked her forehead, then. Was she truly so suspicious by nature? There was a confirming, familiar hum at the back of her mind, near muted behind the whispers of her other ancestors. When had Aguilar receded so far back?

“South,” she admitted and dropped her arms. It was not a sign of trust, though, as her body language still suggested she was on her guard, but reluctance to withhold information eventually outweighed all her other choices.

South, though? Dates were not freely given, and Callum had not had the heard to ask the year - that should have been obvious information and would have gathered many a strange look. She wouldn’t have wanted to provoke Juan to kick her out before she finished healing or ward off Alberto - but she figured well enough that it was April, two months after she had arrived. It had left the year up for debate, though, and it had surprised her enough that she had seemingly arrived in the same month that she had left, or from what she could remember, anyways.

However, ‘south’ confirmed a timespan. The attempted burning of Aguilar and Maria and death of Benedicto in Seville was not the first - the Templars had eradicated the Assassins from their base in Madrid, which was more central-Northern than South. South would be Granada, most likely. South would mean a couple years after 1492 at the very least, most likely decades after. Callum didn’t know if they aimed for Madrid after or if it simply settled into Templar rule. Were there even any Templars left in Spain? Callum rubbed her temple, a fierce ache there. Not even the ghosts of her ancestors could soothe her. Even a tug on Aguilar, so far back that he was barely noticeable, would not prompt him to move or indulge her with condolences. This situation was hers alone.

Aguilar was decidedly quiet and she cursed that fact, namely for the fact that he had left her with a headache that purred from beside her temples. While the one that persisted to haunt her could only recall up until the last memories she had visited and no further, his insight would have been helpful. Perhaps, instead, she should have wondered about the fate his silence had condemned her to.


End file.
